


Kinktober 2020

by emmaliza



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Branding, Bukkake, Crossdressing, Dacryphilia, Daddy Kink, Deepthroating, Double Penetration in One Hole, Double Penetration in Two Holes, Dubious Consent, Formalwear, Fucking Machines, Gun Kink, Knifeplay, Leather Kink, Lingerie, Medical Kink, Mirror Sex, Multi, Netorare, Omorashi, Pet Play, Prostitution, Rape Fantasy, Rape/Non-con Elements, Self-Harm, Selfcest, Size Difference, Sounding, Spanking, Stripping, Telepathic Bond, Tentacle Sex, Threesome - F/M/M, Watersports, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:36:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 31
Words: 12,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26747470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaliza/pseuds/emmaliza
Summary: Collection of ficlets for the above.
Relationships: Cally/Dayna Mellanby, Cally/Jenna Stannis, Clone Roj Blake/Roj Blake, Dayna Mellanby/Del Tarrant, Dayna Mellanby/Soolin, Dayna Mellanby/Zen, Del Tarrant/Original Male Character, Jenna Stannis/Zen, Kerr Avon/Cally, Kerr Avon/Dayna Mellanby, Kerr Avon/Del Tarrant, Kerr Avon/Roj Blake, Kerr Avon/Roj Blake/Del Tarrant, Kerr Avon/Roj Blake/Vila Restal, Kerr Avon/Servalan/Del Tarrant, Olag Gan/Vila Restal, Roj Blake/Cally, Roj Blake/Del Tarrant, Roj Blake/Jenna Stannis, Roj Blake/Olag Gan/Vila Restal, Roj Blake/Servalan, Roj Blake/Travis, Servalan/Del Tarrant, Servalan/Travis
Comments: 152
Kudos: 24
Collections: Kinktober 2020





	1. Day 1: Knifeplay (Travis/Servalan)

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm giving Kinktober a go this year! I've not done this before, and I make no guarantees about my ability to finish at all on time, but anyway.

“Exquisite, isn't it?”

Travis turns the knife over in his hand, the silver and crystal sparkling under dull fluorescent light. Pre-Atomic, clearly, from a time when such extravagance in one's weapons was considered something to be proud of. There are whole cities that wouldn't cost as much. “Bit ornate for me, I'm afraid.”

Servalan grins at him. “I thought you might say that.” She takes the knife back. It's not as if he thought it was a gift. Gently, she presses it to her lips, smirking over the blade. Her tongue darts out, pink and kittenish – she's risking cutting herself, but Travis knows she's too clever to do that if she doesn't mean to.

Then she moves the knife down, to her collarbone, jutting just above the line of her pristine white gown. She slices briskly along the line of her shoulder, and Travis watches as the red blooms and drips down her skin. She does not flinch. He wonders what she is doing here – if she wants to prove something to him, that she is as unafraid of pain as any trooper, but he never doubted it.

“You've ruined your dress,” he comments as the blood seeps through white satin, and she laughs.

“Oh, I have hundreds.” _Of course you do,_ he thinks with only a tinge of resentment. She passes the knife back. “Now, your turn.”

Ah, so that's why. Travis smirks as he holds the blade up to his cheek, one of the few spots of skin visible beneath his uniform. The cut stings, distantly, but he pays it no heed. He's never been afraid to bleed for the Federation.

He keeps his eyes fixed on her own, golden and glittering, as he drops the knife between them. “I don't suppose you want to tell me what all that was about?”

She grins at him. “Oh, I just wanted to see if you would.”


	2. Day 2: Sounding (Avon/Blake)

Blake is always so much to deal with, physically and mentally, this rushing tidal wave of a erson Avon can barely keep atop of. He lies across Blake's heavy, hot, overwhelming body, mouths pressed together in kisses almost juvenile in their eagerness, but still a voice at the back of Avon's head reminds him he should keep something back, not give himself over entirely.

"Avon," Blake moans needily in his mouth as Avon wraps his hand around Blake's fat cock. Blake is so big there as well, thick enough Avon can barely get his fingers around it. He bites his lip as he watches pre-come dribble onto his knuckles. Blake is so big and his slit is so nicely wet already; he was practically made for...

The absurdity of the idea makes him laugh, and Blake, still half-lost in pleasure, frowns at him. "Is something funny?"

Avon blinks. He has no delusions that Blake will indulge this sudden whim of his. Then again, maybe pushing a little is exactly what they need to re-establish some boundaries.

"Do you trust me?"

Blake doesn't answer aloud, but he does nod, subtly, and that's enough for Avon to lean over and withdraw a small leather case from his desk. His eyes go wide when Avon pulls out the thin metal rod, and he freezes when Avon starts to tease his leaking head with cold steel. Idly, Avon wonders if Blake remembers this - lying helpless and prone on his back, with some man looming above him, instrument in hand to use and abuse him to his will.

And yet, within seconds Blake seems to relax, groaning and arching toward the rapidly warming metal. He must trust me. Avon fights that realisation away to keep his hands steady.

When he carefully slides the rod inside the shaft of Blake's urethra, Blake moans, loudly, and then their eyes meet. Avon holds his breath. He does not feel like he has anything left to hold back.


	3. Day 3: Medical Play (Blake/Cally)

"You need rest, Blake."

"I'm fine Cally," he tells her, eyes wedged firmly shut to protect his throbbing head from the artificial light of the medical bay. It never really gets dark on a spaceship; even in the dead of night there is always a dull glow sinking through the doors. "A tension headache, that's all. Some painkillers and I'll be alright."

Cally doesn't say anything, aloud or otherwise, but Blake can tell by the charge in the air. Still, he sighs in relief when he feels the soma course through his veins. When he's feeling better he moves to get up.

Only to discover he can't. 

It's not until he opens his eyes that he realises the restraints have been closed over him, suspending him in their forcefield. "Cally," he gasps, "what are you–?"

"You _need rest,_ Blake." There is a stony look in her eye, one that reminds Blake of the day they met, with him at the butt of her gun. "If you won't submit to proper medical care, it is encumbent upon me to make you."

This is absurd, ridiculous, Blake should tell Cally as much, but instead he just lies there gawping like a dead fish. The words won't come. Slowly, he feels something trickle in at the back of his mind – Cally probing how he really feels, whether he is furious with her or whether he wants to stop, rest, and be tended to after all.

"Now, Blake," her fingers wind soothingly through his curls and make him shudder. It seems she's found her answer. "Hasn't it been too long since you let someone take care of you?"


	4. Day 4: Leather (Blake/Avon, Blake/Travis)

Black leather might just be a problem for him.

Blake first realises this when Avon starts exploring the Liberator's luxurious wardrobe, and comes out in high-heeled boots straight out of a brothel. Haughty and icy as ever, Avon conducts himself like the master of his domain, heels clacking on plastic floors in his wake.

Leather, out of the corner of his eye, has a predictable effect on Blake. Like a wounded animal the briefest hint of danger is enough to have him panicking, afraid of Federation troopers, that they have found him yet again, and they will destroy this nest of rebels as they did the last.

At the back of his mind lurks another man clad head to toe in black leather, clinging to every inch of his body. A man with his gun pointed squarely at Blake's face.

But after awhile a Pavlovian response sets in. Blake isn't afraid of Avon, not really, so if his heart starts pounding every time he sees him what could it mean but...?

Dreams and nightmares blur together. Rest after rest he is visited by squadrons of men in uniform, here to use their helpless prisoner however they see fit, watched over by their smirking commander, so _proud_ to see the famous Roj Blake brought so low.

And, while he struggles against the forces of the Federation, cold, expert fingers hold him for them. "Come now Blake, there's no need to be coy," Avon whispers in his ear, sardonic as ever. "We both know you want all these men to fuck you. Isn't that why you've been fighting all along, to bring them to you?"

Blake wakes in the dead of night gasping, painfully aroused and absolutely terrified. Yes, the leather is definitely going to be a problem.


	5. Day 5: Double Penetration in Two Holes (Tarrant/Avon/Blake)

It's strange, watching Avon with another man. During sex with him Avon always seemed so remote, so distant, like there was something in him Tarrant could never reach regardless of what tabs got inserted in which slots.

Not so right now. Perhaps it is to Blake's credit as a revolutionary leader, that his very presence is so overwhelming he can reduce even the ice king Avon to desperate, needy begging, lying on his back with his thighs shaking from the effort of holding them apart, scratching viciously down Blake's broad back, murmuring curses and declarations of love against the crook of his neck. Tarrant wouldn't know.

"I'm impressed, Blake." Tucked awkwardly against the headboard, hand wrapped loosely around his own prick, he addresses the virtual stranger, rather than the man he's known and had - but never really _had_ \- for almost two years now. He hopes his resentment doesn't show in his voice too much, but watching them together leaves him burning. From arousal or jealousy, who can say? "All the times I fucked him, I never figured how to make him stop using that snide voice of his on me. How on earth did you manage it?"

Buried balls-deep in Avon's eager body, Blake laughs breathlessly. "Practice helps," he says, triggering another stab of envy in Tarrant's guts. Of course, Blake has been fucking Avon a lot longer than he has, and apparently knows better what he's doing - why would he ever forget that? "But if him talking bothers you, I can think of ways of dealing with that."

Avon groans loudly, his head lolling back against the bedsheets. _Oh,_ thinks Tarrant as he observes the wicked spark in Blake's eye and realises what he's alluding to. Avon says nothing, of course, but his perfect painted mouth drops open and Tarrant thinks he can see something in those deep brown irises - some hint of affection, of _trust,_ something they would never speak of aloud but that nonetheless appeased his battered ego.

Tarrant scrambles to his knees and presses his cock against Avon's waiting lips. Well, if the choice is between coming in his own hand and coming in Avon's mouth, that's hardly a choice at all, is it?


	6. Day 6: Free Use (Vila/OFCs)

This would sodding happen to him, wouldn't it? Look, he didn't know that necklace was meant to be ritually significant, he just thought it was pretty and valuable, sticking that in front of him was like sticking meat in front of a hungry dog.

"You are a stranger to these parts," explains the - judge? Queen? High priestess? - pronouncing his sentence, clad in jewels across her body and not much else. Vila would be enjoying the view if he wasn't so terrified of what she was about to do to him. The others must show up to rescue him soon, right? "And we cannot expect you to be familiar with our customs. Hence, I am inclined to grant leniency." _Great, what does that mean, do I lose only the one hand?_ "Indeed I would prefer to avoid imprisoning you at all, if you will consent to a little... community service."

That gets giggles and titters from the gallery, a flock of pretty young women in translucent silken robes. Or dear, Vila doesn't like the sound of it. "'Community service'? What does that mean exactly?" he asks, afraid they've got some monster at the heart of their village they worship as a god, who he can 'service' by feeding it his blood. Or worse.

The judge smiles, but does not answer, indeed standing to reveal she is completely bare beneath the waist, apart from her jewels and trinkets. In a few brisk strides she crosses the room over to him, making him freeze in panic before she sets herself down heavily in his lap. Then he's just confused, and she slides her decorated hands through his hair to pull him into a deep, earnest, demanding kiss. "Service," she whispers against his lips, smiling at how his prick stiffens against her. "It is time for the next generation of our community to be born. We need clever men such as yourself for our gene stocks. If you consent, of course."

Out of the corner of his eye Vila spots the giggling women, staring on at him with lust and impatience. _Waiting their turn,_ he realises. His cock hardens fully against the judge while he does his best not to grin. "Well in that case... I have to say, most planets could learn something from your system of justice."


	7. Day 7: Tentacles (Dayna/Zen)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This seemingly takes place in the same continuity as "[Totally Known](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26019559)", but that's not very important.

This ship is weird. Ever since she came aboard, Dayna has felt something strange about it, an instinct she can't quite put into words but knows better than to ignore. People treat it like it's alive, and sure, the computer speaks to them and has a name, but that's not so very unusual. It's more than that. Dayna is a warrior, used to telling a living enemy from a weapon, and she can sense this ship is far closer to the former.

Tarrant said something to her once, in one of his occasional stabs of chivalry. "You ought to be careful. The ship can be wary of strangers." He seemed a little sheepish. She didn't really know what he was talking about, but she took the advice, wondered idly how he knew, and thought no more about it.

One day she is innocently strolling the corridors, wondering if she can ask Cally for help fixing the turbine on her latest gun, when she trips. A tangle of cables lie on the ground at her feet, and that's odd. It's not like her to trip over anything up ahead. It's not normal for their to be wires just strewn about the place either. What's going on?

While she's distracted she realises the cables are moving, wrapping around her legs and shoulders before she can batter them away. She lets out an undignified shriek as she's thrown up against the corridor wall, and then a dry, emotionless voice rings through her head. _This is a routine assessment of your physical and mental capabilities. Please do not panic._

_Zen?_ she wonders, and shivers as one of the cool metal tentacles circles around her left breast and squeezes tightly. She forces herself to calm down and think. She could probably force the damn things off her if she wanted to, but she doesn't know how much hurt she could dole out without permanently damaging the ship. Avon would not be pleased with that.

Another cable rubs roughly between her legs and she bites her lip. The truth is, ever since she came aboard she's been curious about sex - she supposes that's only natural, having finally met three men who are neither blood relatives, nor do they want to kill her on principle. But she's not sure she could stand the looks on their faces if she actually did sleep with any of them, especially not that Vila.

Zen though, Zen doesn't have a face to be smug at her with. So why not?

"Alright." She relaxes against the wall, spreading her legs to let the ship lift her skirt out of the way. She smirks, daring him. "Zen, show me what you can do."


	8. Day 8: Bukkake (Vila/Blake/Gan)

You know, sometimes Vila doesn't think he gets Blake. He likes him plenty - it's hard not to like the guy who saved you from spending the rest of your life rotting on Cygnus Alpha - but it can be hard to reconcile the various things he does. Specifically, it's hard to reconcile the diehard, utterly assured revolutionary, who commands them all with such complete confidence Vila can't imagine any of them defying his will even if they wanted to, with the fella who shows up in his rooms in the middle of the night and asks two of his followers to force him to his knees and come all over his face like a two-credit slut from the outer galaxy.

Gan, being Gan, never questions the order; if he sees any contradictions between the Blake they know most of the time and the Blake they know in bed, he never speaks of it, he just loyally takes his cock in hand and strokes himself with low, masculine groans, letting Blake sink into the limbo of waiting for their come. Vila can't help staring. It's not like he's not enjoying himself - orgasms are always fun, aren't they? - but he wonders why this, and not something else. There's a lot he and Gan could do to Blake, if he wanted them to (Gan is strong enough he could do practically anything, Vila has been pleases to learn), and yet he never asks for more than a face full of semen. Why?

Vila can't say it doesn't suit Blake though, that he doesn't kind of love watching him get that look on his face, at peace and contented, at least for a few minutes. It's so rare to see Blake genuinely relaxed. It's enough to make Vila wonder what Blake would look like sucking his cock, either of their cocks, but he's not sure he wants to push things by asking.

When they're finished Blake is amiable but reserved, washing his face clean with almost professional ease. He nods at them politely before he exits, leaving the two of them to whatever else they want to do.

Vila lies sleepily in Gan's strong arms, idly running his fingers through the fur on his chest, a dozen questions circling his brain. "Why us?" is the one he asks aloud. "Not that I'm complaining, but - why are we the ones he always comes to for a bit of all that?"

"Who else?" Gan answers, like it's obvious. "If _that's_ what he wants, there are only three men on this ship. He could ask Avon, but..."

Vila flinches. No doubt, Avon couldn't accept Blake's niche sexual preferences with the same equanimity as the two of them. It would become a power struggle. Avon would take the opportunity to come all over Blake's face as evidence that Blake is not the impervious hero he acts like, and Blake is too clever to give him that opportunity. As much as he might like to.

"So how come he never lets us fuck him proper then?"

"Guilt?"

In the low light Vila squints up at Gan suspiciously. Somehow, he suspects the big man understands what's going on here better than he does.

Then he sighs and settles in against Gan's chest. Whatever it is, so long as Blake's baggage doesn't get anyone killed, that's really the most you can ask for.


	9. Day 9: Selfcest  (Clone!Blake/Blake)

Of all the people who could possibly have found him, this one might just be the most absurd and unlikely he could possibly have anticipated. It makes a decent case for the existence of the divine.

He lets himself be healed, soothed, tended to by this man wearing his face. He lets the man do other things too. He feels so distant from the man he was before Star One, so why not?

The man on top of him is big. Strong. Sure of himself. In his steady hands Blake feels safe, and he wonders, is that how he used to make people feel? Is that why they followed him?

Scratched and torn up, Blake lets himself be held, lets himself be used, one or the other, until he comes with a juddering sigh, tasting his own sweat. The clone caresses the scar beneath his eye, gently, where debris went flying. "You have to head back, you know."

Why? What would he do if he headed back? The Federation has made itself a necessary evil, one he chose; he chose the human race's continued existence over his cause, life in exchange for freedom. But without it, who is he?

The clone sounds so certain though. Blake would say he reminds him of how he used to be, except he has no idea how he used to be. Softly, the clone kisses his temple. "People still need you."

Blake doesn't think that's entirely true, but he doesn't think it's entirely wrong either. People need a Roj Blake. He just isn't sure they need _him_.


	10. Day 10: Daddy Kink (Tarrant/Avon)

Sex with Avon is always a struggle. Tarrant shouldn't be surprised, really, but he's falling into the habit of it, the scratching, the clawing, the need to make Avon pay attention to him while they're in bed together becoming just how things are between them.

Alright, most of the scratching is on his part. Avon retains some part of his cold reserve, firmly encased in leather armour, while Tarrant pulls roughly at zips and seams, trying to get him closer. "Alright, Tarrant," Avon murmurs into the hollow of his neck, keeping him on his back on the narrow Spartan mattress. "You have my attention. What do you want?"

He moans softly, then bites his lip before he can embarrass himself too much. "Go to hell, Avon," he mutters, hand reaching between their bodies, squeezing the bulge in Avon's trousers eagerly, cursing how little he feels through the thick fabric.

Irritatingly, Avon does not react, not overtly, but he does guide Tarrant's body upward with skilled hands, shifting one of thighs until he can grind against the sharp bone of Avon's hips. Then he's moaning again, blindly arching off the bed in search of pleasure.

It's humiliating how easily Avon seems to have him falling apart, when he remains so cold and remote. Tarrant tries to pull him down into a rough kiss, and instead finds Avon's teeth nibbling his collarbone, leaving marks like he is inscribing his name on Tarrant's skin. If he were at all thinking straight Tarrant would never acknowledge this even to himself, but right now with Avon on top of him he feels small, he feels vulnerable, he feels _owned._ He feels like he is the property of this cold hard man who he (mostly) doesn't like, who doesn't like him, and the sparks of pleasure that rush up his spine every time Avon's body moves against his are mind-bending. 

"Avon... _daddy..._ "

Orgasm hits him like a neutron blaster, pure and free and good. Then comes the aftermath. When he recovers his wits he turns red with mortification at what he just said, and Avon is already up and out of bed, strenuously avoiding his eye. "Avon? What are you--?"

"I think you should go," Avon tells him. "Now."

Avon says that, but his visible erection says otherwise. Tarrant smirks. Clearly, Avon was not as unaffected by his attentions as he acts. "I don't see why," he replies breezily, "we were rather in the middle of something. As much as I appreciated all that, I don't want you taking me for a selfish lover."

Mind no longer addled by lust (or at least, not as addled), Tarrant pushes himself up off the bed, approaching Avon with a swagger. Avon flinches away. He frowns. "What's wrong Avon? You were perfectly content to have sex with me five minutes ago."

Avon finally meets his eye, glaring at him fiercely. "I am willing to have sex with you," he says. "But I am not going to be responsible for you."

 _Damn, he heard me after all._ Tarrant finds his blush returning, burning hotter this time. He grins. "Come now, don't overreact. I didn't mean anything by calling you that." _At least, I hope I didn't._ "A stupid sex game, that's all. I won't say it again if it bothers you."

"Really." Avon hardly sounds convinced, no doubt all too aware of Tarrant's habit of using whatever he can to get under Avon's skin. But he does sound tempted, still plainly aroused despite his misgivings. _Immune to all our human emotions, but not animal lust, are you Avon?_

Gently he caresses Avon's prick once more, relishing how his eyes flutter shut with pleasure. Instinctively he slides down onto his knees, only realising once he hears the thump against the floor that was a bad idea. But he can't back down now.

Looming above him, Avon smirks. "I hope you realise," he says, "you are an incorrigible brat."


	11. Day 11: Watersports (Avon/Dayna)

"I did warn you this wasn't really my scene."

Dayna giggles, chipper and girlish, in his ear. Not his usual type, but... "Indulge me, will you?" Avon gasps as her gun-hardened hand lands on his lower belly and squeezes, bladder protesting, aching with abuse and barely restraining from releasing entirely. "You can relax. I'm not going to tell anyone."

It truly is that simple for her, isn't? It turns her on to watch him piss himself like a little boy, so she asks him to do it. No-one will ever find out, so there is no need for shame or embarrassment. It must be nice to think so simply. Perhaps that's why he can't bring himself to tell her no.

"Have another drink, Avon."

He eyes the glass of water she offers him like it's a dangerous enemy, but nonetheless when it reaches his lips he drinks it. His cock screams in protest, a thin stream of fluid dribbling out of him and down his thigh.

Dayna's dark eyes shine like they do when she scents blood in the air, and is moving in for the kill. "That's it. Now just let go."


	12. Day 12: Dacryphilia (Tarrant/Servalan)

_She was so beautiful when she cried._ Tarrant keeps that thought a guilty secret, his colleagues fortunately seeming uninterested in the details of his dalliance outside of what they need to judge him for it. For the best. Those memories are private, he is not eager to have anyone else assess them.

He feels uneasy when he remembers the sound of her sobbing, the taste of salt upon her cheek. Blood rushes to his cheeks and then inevitably to his cock, and that makes a certain sickness settle in his gut. He is no longer an officer but he still wants to think of himself as a gentleman; it's not like him to enjoy seeing a woman cry. Even _that_ woman.

But it's not as if he got any sadistic pleasure out of seeing her weep. Quite the opposite. Her tears made him want to comfort her, to help her, whether or not he should - he remembers hearing her shaking breaths as she came upon his tongue, and it felt like triumph, like victory, to find something human in this conqueror of the galaxy. Far more than shooting her in the head would have.

Tarrant spills messily upon his stomach at the memory, sighing with another guilty want that he can never tell his shipmates about. It doesn't matter anyway. He knows her tears were all an act - she feels nothing for him at all.


	13. Day 13: Spanking (Avon/Tarrant)

"You're proud of yourself, are you?"

Avon doesn't have to see Tarrant's face to see him smiling smugly as he taps in directions away from this planet, assured his little scheme has gone off without a hitch. "A little, yes. We managed to make a deal with their rebel forces, without having to handle your insufferable paranoia. I would have thought you'd approve - you always want to reduce unnecessary complications."

Were Avon thinking more sensibly, he would treat Tarrant's flagrant baiting him exactly how he deserves - by ignoring it entirely, which he knows would drive Tarrant mad more than any stinging remark. But he is _tired._ He is tired of being on the run, a renegade from a fight he never signed up for and does not know why he hasn't abandoned entirely. He is tired of deals and secrets and heists, putting his survival in the hands of people he does not know and does not trust - except for when he does know them, in which case he trusts them even less.

And he is tired of Tarrant. He is tired of Tarrant's constant jockeying for his position aboard his ship, as if he'd have the faintest idea what to do with it if he got it ( _like I do,_ he thinks bitterly). He is tired of Tarrant striding about the flight deck like he owns it, like Blake used to, but with far less right to believe such a thing. But most of all, he is tired of Tarrant's insufferable optimism - his unwavering belief that whatever he does, it will turn out for the best. 

Tarrant cries out as he's suddenly pushed face-down over the console - no doubt he was expecting some sort of reaction, but probably not that. "You're a child, Tarrant," Avon sneers at him, both because it is true and because it is calculated to wound Tarrant's ego. "A selfish, naive, needy child." Tarrant squirms a little in his grip, but he doesn't really pull away, and in a fit of pique Avon smacks him harshly on the behind. "Perhaps you ought to be punished as a child. Maybe that would knock some sense into you."

Avon knows he's being stupid; Tarrant's military upbringing no doubt involved corporal punishment when necessary, and if that didn't teach him how to behave there is no reason this should. But it is satisfying. Tarrant doesn't move away from him and so Avon does it again, delighting in how he gasps as Avon turns his young, pert arse pink. This is pointless. Spanking a boy half his age who he strongly suspects would do anything for his attention will not give him any more control over a universe that seems determined to destroy him.

But it does make him feel better. That isn't nothing.

And it's hard not to notice Tarrant's moans at each blow upon his skin, him arching his back to meet the contact with downright enthusiasm. _Oh, he's enjoying this._ Of course he is, Tarrant has been throwing tantrums to try and get Avon to take him in hand ever since they met; Avon spanking him over the Liberator's console must be everything he's ever dreamed of, whether or not he wants to admit it.

Avon watches, his hand coming down upon Tarrant's arse again and again almost automatically, as Tarrant forces his fist into his mouth, as his hips jerk and stutter against the console, as he swallows a scream that bounces off the Liberator's hollow walls. _He's coming,_ thinks Avon, and he does not know if he is pleased or disgusted. Both, probably.


	14. Day 14: Netorare (Avon, Blake/Tarrant)

_Tarrant has always been precipitous,_ Avon thinks as he watches the dramatic scene spread before him, not making a sound. Of course Tarrant would have seduced the man he has spent the last four years resenting, desiring, and resenting how much he desires within a matter of days. Why wouldn't he?

He can't pretend Blake isn't enjoying Tarrant's youthful stamina, lying on his back with thick thighs wrapped firmly around Tarrant's waist, eyes closed so he can't see Avon lodged in the doorway. Tarrant's perfectly sculpted back is turned to him, he cannot see a thing. He will never know of his ultimate victory. That's funny.

The two of them are clearly having a good time together, and why shouldn't they be? He's sure Tarrant is everything Blake has ever wanted. Moral enough to be used as part of Blake's grand crusade, and yet so much a product of the Federation he _needs_ someone like Blake to shape him into a true revolutionary. Avon watches Tarrant drive his long slim cock into Blake again and again, and he is sure they are both enjoying that: Tarrant, to have someone give him a purpose he can devote himself to, a cause to belong to, and Blake, someone who will follow him as if he is the same leader he was four years ago.

Avon walks out to the sound of moans, chuckling bitterly to himself. Those two did well to find one another. They have no need of him.


	15. Day 15: Prostitution (Tarrant/OMC)

It's an older ship, but it checks out. Speed and strength are currently much lesser concerns of his than stealth, specifically his ability to get off this planet in something not obviously stolen Federation property before a squadron of his former colleagues touch down looking for a deserter.

Tarrant keeps his hands braced against the console, memorising the controls so he can take off as soon as possible once they're done. He has no money, something he is not used to; his credit account is long frozen by now. The man whose ship this is, or was, or some limbo between the two, he keeps Tarrant firmly in place with metal-weathered hands, forcing him still while he sinks upon him, grunting and sweating like a pig. His breath is hot and his voice is sharp against Tarrant's neck:

"Ohh, nice little hole you've got. You should do this full time. Promise you'd make a pretty penny, enough to afford a better ship than this pile of bolts."

Lucky a Federation pursuit ship is good enough metal you can always get a decent price for it in scrap, far more than what he's asking - he could go find a better ship, except there's no time. _This_ isn't how he's paying, obviously. He may not be a Federation officer with a reputation to uphold anymore, but there are some things he's not going to do just to stay alive. What would his mother think?

(If she hasn't written him off as a traitor already, that is.)

No, this is just sex, incidental to their transaction and a perfectly natural thing for one man to do to another. No strings, no requirements. Of course.

Tarrant bites his lip to repress a shriek as the man quickens his pace, thrusting so deep on him it feels like he might tear in two. It hurts, but Tarrant was expecting that - his own dalliance with other men have never gone so far before, just boyhood fooling really, but he does know the theory. It doesn't matter. He can handle pain. Whatever gets this over with sooner - it can't be more than an hour before the troops are due to touch down; he doesn't have much time.

The man gives three more blunt, animal thrusts and then spills inside him, leaving a throbbing ache and a burning sense of shame along with his come. "There you go. She's all yours."

The man rights himself and walks out, leaving Tarrant alone with his new purchase. He collapses into the pilot's chair. He has his ship, but he didn't have to do anything for it; he didn't have to degrade himself, he didn't have to make himself from the cream of Space Command into a common...

He braces himself against the controls and forces himself to quell his shaking, to take a deep breath. He has a ship and he's still alive. That's all that matters.


	16. Day 16: Fucking Machine (Blake/Servalan)

Blake doesn't know how long he's been here. Days, probably. The cramped black walls of his cell do a lot to make the night seem eternal, as does the machine they have him strapped to, fucking him into states of unwitting ecstasy and then uneasy unconsciousness, until the world itself no longer feels quite real. No doubt, the nutritional fluid they are pumping him full of is laced with aphrodisiacs that keep his body willing and eager, even when his mind is sickened and scared.

He preferred it when they were torturing him. Even an honest, straightforward rape would eventually give some respite thanks to the constraints of human physiology. But this contraption can fuck him all day and all night, speeding up and slowing down but never stopping, not even when he sleeps, and he fears they will leave him here the rest of his life, suffering orgasm after orgasm until he forgets he ever felt anything else.

When the door opens it is a relief to have some interruption, any interruption, to the monotony of pleasure, even though the light that brings in means he can see the disgusting mess of dried semen covering his stomach and the thick metal plug keeping his anus stretched wide. He recognises the figure standing in the doorway. "Supreme Commander," he says, his voice hoarse from crying out and not doing much else. Still, he is lucky she entered while the machine is on one of its slower cycles - if he concentrates, he can probably hold a conversation.

She is a vision in pure white, at least compared to the deathly black walls surrounding her, and she smiles to see herself recognised. "Roj Blake. I've heard a lot about you. I'm glad we finally have the chance to meet."

He turns his eyes up to the ceiling, breath coming fast, desperately ignoring how the machine quickens its pace. "I'm surprised. I wouldn't have thought one Earth-bound rabble rouser would be within your purview."

"Oh, but you're not any rabble rouser. My colleagues on Earth have spoken about nothing else for the last year. I had to be curious."

The machine speeds up again, fucking him properly now, and Blake digs his nails into his bound palms to keep from making a noise. "I admit, I don't understand your strategy," he gasps. "Is this really the most efficient way of making me talk?"

"Hmm? Oh no, we already got all the information we need from you. This is just for fun."

"Fun," Blake spits with disgust. He shouldn't be surprised by any barbarity the Federation is capable of, but in the past their cruelties have always seemed to have some purpose, to keep the people cowed and in line. This is simply degrading an enemy for the hell of it, because he dared to defy them and he needs to be punished for that.

Supreme Commander Servalan's wide gold eyes sparkle with delight. "Mmm. Very fun." Her long talons scratch across his bare chest, neatly avoiding the trails of come. "You should be thankful. The men all wanted the chance to rape you themselves, but it was decided that would be bad for troop discipline." Her hand wraps around his stiff, sore cock, and Blake can't help but keen to a human touch, any human touch, even from a person as vile as this one. "Oh, what a lovely thick cock you have," she coos, teeth bared like the wolf in a children's story. "I'd like to have a go on it myself, but I'm afraid in my position one must remain professional."

She lets go and he moans, his prick leaking pathetically onto his belly, the machine now fucking him at full speed and leaving him trembling on the break of orgasm. As she steps away she chuckles idly to herself. "Although, I'm not sure it really matters. After all, you won't remember any of this."

Blake is so tightly wound he can barely focus on what she's saying at all, but he watches her grin, clearly noticing the confusion in his eyes. "The psychotherapists are almost ready for you now," she says. "Don't worry, you won't have to deal with these unpleasant memories any longer. These, and many others. Your conspirators, your ideology, what you have done the last four years, we can deal with that. You'll be the perfect Federation citizen: docile and obedient, an example for all the other subversive elements to learn from.

Blake's blood runs cold. "No. You can't." He would rather be here for the rest of his life. To have their neurosurgeons poking around in his brain, recreating him in his their own image... If he has to be raped by their technology, much better his body than his mind.

"We can. You know that." He does. Panic floods his system alongside arousal as the machine batters against his prostate, leaving him barely hanging on to avoid coming. "Hmm. Perhaps we'll turn you into a willing soldier's whore, and give you over to the men once before you leave, as a treat."

Blake is panting, writhing, struggling against his bonds, and desperately he tells her: "You won't win."

"Dear Blake." The machine buries itself fully inside him, and Blake comes, screaming, all over himself. "We already have."


	17. Day 17: Threesome (Avon/Tarrant/Servalan)

Avon's been held prisoner a few times in his life, but never quite like this. Tarrant's situation is a little more conventional, as he is the one with a cloth gag in his mouth and his hands bound behind his back. Servalan seems to think that will appeal to Avon - he is the one she wants on her side, whereas Tarrant, she just wants, pretty and quiet. Understandable, really. 

Servalan has her head tossed back, moaning softly into her silken pillows. She is beautiful in pleasure, from what little he can see of her, and he drives his nails into Tarrant's golden hip in frustration. Servalan is too clever to allow him anywhere near her when she's vulnerable, at least not without slotting a human shield in between them. 

Tarrant, apparently, is not such a threat. Granted, he's he's little tied up to be much trouble the moment, but still - Avon wonders what happened on Virn, precisely. Doubtless if he asked he would be smugly informed it's none of his business. 

The gag is turning wet as Tarrant gasps and pants into it, clearly overwhelmed by the two of them, Servalan wrapped tight around his prick and Avon steadily fucking him from behind. Avon doesn't know if Tarrant has ever been properly buggered before, but he wouldn't put money on it. No doubt he'll be angry with Avon for this once it is over - irrationally, given they are both prisoners here, it's not as if either of them could resist her advances if they wanted to (and somehow Avon doubts either of them really wants to), but Tarrant has never been a very rational person. This certainly must be a blow to his ego, to have the two of them using him, fucking each other through him, and Tarrant's never handled a bruised ego well. 

Subtly Avon circles the small if his back with his thumb, hoping to be comforting, for some inexplicable reason. He's surprised when Tarrant's bound hands start scrambling for his, and as Servalan reaches her peak with a loud gasp he threads their fingers together and holds on tight. 

Avon is surprised, but he shouldn't be. After all, they are the only ones on each other's side here.


	18. Day 18: Petplay (Cally/Avon)

"Avon? Could you help me with this?"

She can see the calculations behind his eyes; how reluctant he is to expend effort on anyone other than himself, versus how eager he is to prove how much cleverer than everyone he is. Luckily, he has more time for her than most, so it doesn't take him long to respond: "What is it?"

Cally leans back, allowing her folder full of visual stimulus to splay across her lap. "Earthling cultural practices puzzle me," she says. "These, for example. I assume they are some sort of religious symbol? The association of animal traits with human forms is a common attribute of worship..."

Peering over her shoulder, Avon starts to chuckle. "Not worship, no," he tells her. "I'm afraid you have stumbled upon a uniquely Terran form of pornography."

Cally returns to her collection of hand-drawn girls - and some boys, but mostly girls - all fully clothed, but in close-fitting, animal-print outfits, with ears, whiskers and tails. "Earthbound humans are aroused by cats?!" she asks, vaguely repelled, despite having never seen an actual cat in her life. 

"Not cats themselves," Avon is quick to reassure her. "But certain traits associated with cats: pride, aloofness, unavailability... Humans find those traits intriguing, and hence arousing."

Cally puzzles over this statement for awhile. "Pride, aloofness, unavailability... I can think of one human I associate with all those traits."

If she didn't know better, she'd think Avon was flustered. "Be that as it may, I'm hardly going to don cat ears and a tail for you."

Now that was entirely too specific. "Really now?" she asks. "Please remember, I am a telepath. I could be very good at changing your mind."


	19. Day 19: Mirror Sex (Blake/Travis)

Travis thinks about Blake all the time.

It's hard not to, the man lurking just out of the corner of his good eye, glimpsing him in mirrors and windows. Sometimes he will smash his knuckles against the glass, to find him, catch him, destroy him. But all that does is turn his hands into a bloody mess. Typical, really.

Travis fucks him rough against the bright shining shards, a dozen reflections echoing back at them. Cruel men, hard men, men who cannot forget and could never forgive. Men who would do anything to destroy their enemy, no matter how much chaos they may leave in their wake.

Blake's dreams puzzle and frighten him, years removed from the Liberator, from Travis' death, and the clarity of an archnemesis. He is back in the war of attrition, fighting to strip away any grain of Federation power, and feeling himself dissolve into sand.

He wakes up with the scar beneath his eye stinging. Phantom pains.

Blake thinks about Travis all the time.


	20. Day 20: Noncon (Tarrant/OMC)

Tarrant wakes up, groggy and sore, in what looks like a wooden shack sheltering him from the sun. Perhaps it was a mistake not to bring anyone as back up, but Avon was reluctant enough to use their time and resources to rescue a group of stranded strangers, Tarrant didn't want anyone catching on that the distress call didn't come from just any strangers, but a Federation platoon, and make the matter into a test of loyalty. Foolish, really.

He struggles to push himself up off the ground, only to realise his arms are bound behind his back with primitive hessian rope. He should have expected that. Luckily, he doesn't have to worry about it for very long - as soon as they realise he's awake two men grab him by the arms, almost dislocating his shoulders, and throw him onto his knees in front of an ornate wooden chair.

In the chair sits a man, clad in nothing but a black cloak, which Tarrant soon realises is stitched together from the remains of his Federation uniform. Was he once their captain? He commands the room with all the power of a king, and Tarrant wonders what exactly has happened here in the year since the war.

"Del Tarrant," the man grins savagely, like a wolf.

Tarrant blinks in confusion. "I'm sorry, have we met?"

From the furious burn in this man's eye and the guards tightening their grip on his skin, he'd wager that was the wrong answer. Damn. "You don't remember me? No, I didn't think you would. Frey Huntly, mean anything to you?"

It rings a bell, but nothing else, and Tarrant shakes his head. Huntly laughs bitterly. "Yes, that's just like you. Always too good for the rest of us, weren't you? Anyone who had to earn their place in the Academy, who didn't get in because daddy winked and nodded."

A moment too late, Tarrant remembers who he is. Frey Huntly, that kid who was always hovering about the flight simulators when he wanted to use them. Funny, Tarrant recalls him being a shy, quiet fellow, the type who wouldn't dare make a fuss when told he was obstructing a superior grade cadet from performing vital training exercises. How time changes people.

So that's why the third degree, a bitter ex-classmate, resentful of the ace pilot after being used and left to rot like so much disposable cannon fodder. Petty and juvenile, but understandable, given how long he's been isolated. Tarrant tries to soften his attitude, more than comes naturally. "Look, maybe we don't have the best history, but that's all in the past. I'm here to help you. I have a ship, I can get you off this planet–"

"Now why would I want to do something like that?" Huntly interrupts him, which, if nothing else, keeps him from thinking about how it sounds uncomfortably like he's begging. "This place is a paradise. Full of warm sun, good food, and total freedom. And my men." He nods toward the two holding Tarrant captive. "I'm the reason they're still alive. Why on earth would I want to give that up?"

Tarrant is baffled. "But... you put out a distress signal."

"Arrogant and naive. Haven't changed at all, have you?" Tarrant snarls, struggling against his jailers. He feels like he's changed a lot, but he somehow doubts that Huntly is ready to hear it. "And I thought you were meant to be a space pirate now. Alright. This place might be an Edenic utopia, but there are still certain... luxuries... we miss. Luring ships here and robbing the crew is a good way of obtaining those. Liquor, drugs... women." _Dayna,_ thinks Tarrant, grateful he didn't bring back-up after all. "But this time, I think we found something much better."

While distracted by this catching up on old times, Tarrant somehow missed the sizable erection swelling against Huntly's bare thigh. Instincts roused, he tries to get to his feet and run, but it's no use - he's on his knees and pinned down by two men, not to mention the lingering effects of whatever they used to knock him out coursing through his system, it's pathetically little of a struggle. Huntly gets out of his throne and approaches him, no matter what he does.

"Still so pretty, aren't you Tarrant? Always were so pretty." Huntly's fingers wind gently through his hair, and Tarrant hisses at him like an animal. Maybe it's pointless, but he has to do _something._ "You know at the Academy everyone who didn't think you were only there because of your family name, thought you were doing so well because you were selling your hole to all the professors. Not me though. No, I always thought, when you were swanning about the place like you owned it, what you really _needed_ was a nice, hard cock up your arse."

Tarrant fights to get away again, but the men either side of him hold him tight. Huntly laughs. "Don't expect any of them to take pity on you. Remember, they're all good, loyal Federation soldiers, who worked hard to get in the service and sacrificed themselves in the line of duty. What do you think they make of someone who got handed everything he could ever want, then turned coward and traitor?"

He spits in fury. Traitor he can handle, but he is no coward, and they could never understand how brave he had to be to leave the way he did. He is about to say as much when he feels Huntly's cock pressed against his jaw, hot, demanding, inescapable. Then it's hard to think about anything else.

"We've talked about it, you see, and every one of my men is on board to show what happens to cunts like you when they don't have the Federation's laws to protect them," Huntly tells him. "Now open that pretty mouth of yours."

"Go to hell."

Huntly yanks his hair sharply, making him yelp. "Open your mouth, or I'll smash every one of your stupid shiny teeth out."

Tarrant freezes. It's not his teeth he's worried about - he's vain, but he's not that vain It's just, the others should come looking for him soon. And if they find him like this... If he only looks roughed up a little, they'll think nothing of it, that happens to them everyday. But if all his teeth are missing, they will ask why, and what could he possibly tell them?

Slowly, with great reluctance and burning shame, Tarrant opens his mouth. Huntly grins cruelly at him. "That's it. Now, don't look so sad. After all, you were made for this."


	21. Day 21: Size Difference (Vila/Gan)

"Are you alright? Did I hurt you?"

Vila wants to laugh. Leave it to Gan to stop and ask if he's alright so many times, you'd think he'd never done this before. "Yes, I'm fine. And if you ask one more time my feelings are going to get hurt. I'll think you're stalling!"

"No, it's not that." Gan frowns with characteristic perfect earnestness. "It's just... Well I'm not exactly your type. I'm not exactly most people's type. I just want to be sure I don't push you too far."

Now it's Vila's turn to frown. Somehow he doubts this is really about him. "It's alright Gan." Maybe he's still not entirely used to the idea he's sleeping with another man, let alone one so much bigger and stronger than him, but on the whole... he likes it. Being with Gan makes him feel safe, secure, protected. In his years Vila has learned that's actually a pretty rare feeling, so you should embrace it while you can.

"I trust you," he concludes, and that makes Gan smile at him, gentle as ever. "Now please hurry up and fuck me, I'm dying down here!"


	22. Day 22: Formal Wear (Jenna/Cally)

“Well, how do I look?”

”Beautiful, Jenna.” Cally's eyes run hungrily over her in the closet room mirror. You have to hand it to Cally, she's not one to hide the way she feels. _But you look beautiful all the time Jenna, I don't know why you go to such an effort. I'd want you in anything, I want you completely nude. Oh, how I want you completely nude._

Jenna shivers at the feel of Cally's voice rumbling through her head, and yes, she knows Cally does that to everyone – but still it feels painfully intimate. “I like looking like this,” she says, ignoring the images of herself, stripped bare, legs spread open and crying out with need, that rapidly splash through her brain. The lavender gown she's wearing, bare-shouldered and falling down to her ankles, it's useless for anything practical, but that is half the point of it. “In the Federation, everything always had to be according to plan. No point wearing something nice, unless it served some greater purpose. When I got out, dressing how I wanted, it felt like... it felt like freedom. Like I didn't have to explain myself to anybody. If I wanted to be as bright and shining as a star, who could tell me not to?”

A wave of sympathy crashes over her, which distracts her from Cally's true intentions. Jenna gasps as ;she's pushed up against the wall, letting Cally savage her neck with animal ferocity. _I want to fuck you so hard. I want you begging and screaming and swearing that you're mine. I want to tear all your clothes off and bruise you all over, so anyone who looks at you knows, nobody can make you do anything, unless I allow it._

The dress falls easily from her torso and lets Cally squeeze her tits until they're purple with attention, and Jenna suspects that's the other half of the point of it. She laughs to herself. “No-one could accuse you of playing hard to get.”

“Mm, no.” Cally says that aloud, and makes her shiver at the hot air rushing against her neck. “Now bend over, and let me show you just how pretty I find you all dressed up.”


	23. Day 23: Double Penetration in One Hole (Vila/Avon/Blake)

Vila doesn’t think he gets enough credit for how much he does for this crew. Like now, for example. He can't imagine anyone else volunteering to put themselves in the middle of one of Blake and Avon's battles.

Okay maybe it's not the worst thing in the galaxy, having the two of them let loose upon him, all that repressed \Alpha passion finding a home on his little, fragile body. It feels good, the two of them stretching him to the limits of human endurance, and Vila has never been one to knock back things that feel good.

They don't touch each other. Vila notices that, because they both touch him so much. It's like fucking a couple of animals, all biting, scratching, clawing, but they keep their hands off each other. Vila knows hes's just another piece of property for the two of them to argue over, but with both their cocks inside him fucking him so hard he can barely breathe, it's hard to stay mad about it.

They keep their hands off each other, but down below is another matter. Vila has them both inside him, after all, and can feel them rubbing their cocks up against each other in heat, in need, as if they can't possibly get close enough together but they could never admit it enough to fuck each other – at least, Avon can't. Blake, Vila suspects, would be alright if he didn't know Avon would make such a big deal of it.

Vila holds out as long as he can, to give them more of what they need but can't admit to wanting, but he's only human. Soon enough he's coming, making a mess of Blake's belly and feeling Avon sigh, disappointed, against his neck.

After Avon makes a hasty exit, pricklily dressing himself without a word. Blake just sinks into Vila's bed, a space he feels every right to, and falls asleep. Vila sighs and settles in, pleased to get at least one post-coital cuddle.

Maybe this regular threesome thing isn't having the effect on crew cohesion you would hope. But at least he's getting something out of it.


	24. Day 24: Branding (Avon/Blake)

Blake has been gone for just over a year when Avon starts losing his mind.

It's the loss of Cally, most likely, that constant soothing presence at the corner of all their thoughts, that pushes him over the edge. Her being gone and how she died, his mistakes, his stupid, irrational, desperate mistakes, mistakes no-one could expect him to make – no-one but one; Blake always knew Avon would do anything for him. He bet his life on it more than once. Why not believe he had done it again?

The laser scalpel is a professional instrument, needed to adjust Dorian's base to their purposes, there is no reason for anyone to question what he's doing with it. When he starts driving the lightbeam across his inner thigh, it feels less insane than he knows, rationally, it is. Painful yes, but perfectly logical. Deep down he has known he's Blake's property for years. Why not make it official?

Blake's name curls into his skin easily, but after, all he's left with is an ugly scar and a sense of shameful foolishness. It's not like Blake will ever _see_ it.


	25. Day 25: Gunplay (Soolin/Dayna)

“Well, what do you think?”

Soolin turns over the weapon in her hand, nails scratching against the grooves of the barrel. Two chambers, one for plasma bullets, one for laser. Small and discreet, but clearly powerful enough to blow a man's head off. Dayna has always been more creative with guns than her. “Impressive.” Dayna beams, as if she was expecting any other reaction. Soolin quickly spins the gun around, pressing it to Dayna's temple with detatched coolness. “But you should be more careful about giving your weapons away.”

Dayna laughs, and within seconds Soolin finds the gun knocked out of her hand. She's not actually going to shoot Dayna, so she's a little helpless; Dayna is far superior to her at hand-to-hand combat, as she is at everything that requires close human contact. Soolin finds herself pinned tight against Dayna's breast, before they go tumbling to the ground, Soolin landing on her front with the younger girl's muscled thighs straddling her either side.

She shivers as she feels the tip of the gun running up her inner thigh, a certain primeval, elemental panic filling her veins at her helplessness. But she trusts Dayna. Leaving aside the fact she doesn't trust anyone, she trusts Dayna. “You know, I didn't bother to load this,” Dayna says, and Soolin suspected as much – Dayna can be reckless but she respects her weapons too much to play sex games with them loaded. “Without bullets, it's a bit useless. Can you think of something I could do with it?”

The barrel presses insistently between her legs, and Soolin bites her lip, repressing a smirk. “Oh, you're the creative one. I'm sure you'll think of something.”


	26. Day 26: Stripping (Tarrant/Dayna)

“You know, that cage suits you.”

Tarrant is in the midst of ruing how Vila technically saved all their lives, and so can't in good conscience be made to clean up the decaying bones of their rescuer turned abductor, and as such he barely catches what Dayna said. “Sorry, what?” Dayna looks up at him impassively, but her poker face doesn't quite hold (unsurprising, Tarrant has learned Dayna is in fact very bad at poker). “What cage?”

She rolls her eyes. “Fine, the ladder then,” she says. “But it looks like a cage.”

Tarrant can't help but laugh. “You have quite the imagination,” he says. “Anyway, I hope you're not planning on handing me over to the authorities just to fulfil your fantasies.”

Dayna scoffs. “I doubt they'd let me watch.” Fair point. “Besides, in my fantasies, the boys in cages had considerably fewer clothes on.”

Her eyes twinkle eagerly at him in the darkness, and Tarrant grins at her. “Now, that I can do something about.” This is probably stupid. But that is part of what he likes about Dayna, that things don't always feel so deathly serious around her, and after the last couple of days they could all use some levity. _He_ could use some levity. As such, it's easy to find the zip of his jacket, and slowly start peeling it off, pouting and sighing around the metal bars like something out of a verboten vizfilm.

He is being deliberately absurd about all this, but Dayna doesn't seem like she isn't enjoying the display, eyes shining with youthful enthusiasm. Not that Tarrant is unaware he's good-looking, but it's always nice to be reminded. He means to cut this out once the first piece of clothing hits the floor, but Dayna looks so pleased he instead turns his attention to slowly unfastening his buttons, one by one.

Dayna scoffs. “You know, if you always take this long to get your clothes off, it's a miracle you get anything else done.”

Shirt halfway open, Tarrant stops and looks at her. “It's called making a show of it.” You'd think she had never seen a stripper before – which is probably literally true, now he thinks of it, but does raise the question of why she had that thought about him and the ladder looking like a age in the first place. He chuckles and shakes his head at her. “Should have known you'd be as crass about this as you are about your weapons.”

“Oh, crass, am I? Funny, you didn't seem to complain when–”

“Oi!” A voice interrupts them. “Are you two done down there? Avon won't let me have more wine until–”

Tarrant looks up to see Vila standing at the top the ladder, staring down to see him half-naked, shirtsleeves hanging from his elbows, and Dayna happily watching him. His jaw drops open a little. “You know what? It can wait. Have fun you two.”

“Wait, Vila, we weren't–” but it's too late, Vila has already scurried off, no doubt to share the gossip with Avon, leaving Tarrant burning red and Dayna to laugh her head off.

Tarrant turns and glares at her. “Alright, just for that, _you_ have to explain to them that we weren't actually having sex here.”

In truth he's not sure how he expected her to respond to that, but it's probably not with the wry, knowing smirk she gives him. “Maybe. Or maybe...” Slowly she approaches the cage – ladder – and her fingers wrap around one of the metal bars, just south of his. “We let them assume just that?”

Tarrant blinks in disbelief, realising, somewhat belatedly, he's being propositioned. Dayna shrugs. “Well, why not? Somebody has to turn this creepy lair into a home.”

He laughs. “Alright, I've heard worse ideas.”

Dayna grins, running her fingers across his bare skin. “See, there are advantages to being crass.”


	27. Day 27: Xenophilia (Jenna/Cally)

Red and black, not colours associated with the best, the purest the galaxy has to offer, but as she drags her fingers along the gossamer folds Jenna finds herself entranced. Cally giggles, girlishly, as Jenna circles her core. “You know, I can feel that,” she comments. “I know they look like fabric, but..”

Jenna finds herself uncharacteristically embarrassed. “Sorry,” she mutters, but she can't bring herself to stop stroking it. Cally's cunt – or whatever she's going to call it, because that word feels far too crude, even though Jenna has never been given to prudishness – spills open when her legs are spread, displaying translucent colour like silk that would fetch a pretty penny on any planet Jenna can name – but that's not what it reminds her of, not really. Cally makes it look like a butterfly's wings, even though Jenna has never even seen a butterfly, somehow she knows that's the right metaphor – something fragile, and breakable, but still determinedly free, because it can always fly away. Jenna does love to fly.

_Don't be ridiculous, don't go falling in love._ Jenna has never considered herself an ideological person, having joined in Blake's crusade against the Federation for the understandable reason that the Federation are the ones who want her imprisoned, if not dead. Sex has always been a practical matter for her; orgasm one of many brief hedonistic thrills that make the trudge through existence bearable.

And yet lying in bed with Cally, and Cally's perfectly alien cunt, it's hard not to believe in what she and Blake say. That there are things it's worth risking everything to protect from the swelling tide of conformity, come to reshape the universe in it's own image. Things it's worth dying for, even.


	28. Day 28: Lingerie (Blake/Jenna)

Blake breathes quickly, lavender lace clinging to the jut of his belly, digging into the curve of his thighs. These do not fit, they didn't fit even before he was aroused, and by now he's almost torn them to pieces.

“Try to relax,” Jenna leans up on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear, still fully dressed in her black and silver tunic, watching him in the mirror while with one hand she fondles his cock through a pair of her own lace knickers, the fabric obscenely stretched and hiding nothing. Blake groans lowly in her grip. “For what it's worth, I think you look lovely.”

That makes Blake chuckle. “Not the word I would have used.” He's sure he looks ridiculous, embarrassing - his body isn't the type made to get dolled up in frills and lace. But he is enjoying himself, and he trusts Jenna not to use this against him.

Jenna's grip on him tightens, makes him gasp. “Well I would, so shut up.” _Forthright as ever_ _,_ Blake thinks, and he laughs, but it quickly devolves into moaning as Jenna drives the fabric roughly against his cock, leaving it soaked through. “There we go. Now, if this is what it takes to bribe you into bed, I have a lot more pretty things you can try on.”


	29. Day 29: Telepathic Bonds (Jenna/Zen)

Life on the run is exhausting, more often than not. After the third near-death experience and skin-of-teeth escape from the forces of the Federation in as many weeks, it's all Jenna can do to tear her clothes off and collapse into bed, relying on the Liberator's automatic temperature adjustment systems to account for the fact she can't be bothered to pull her blankets up.

A voice echoes through her ear. _Jenna Stannis. Your physical systems have endured a major ordeal. Some form of tension relief is recommended for an ideal recovery._

Jenna is tired enough that Zen talking directly into her brain no longer feels intrusive; more like an old friend checking in at the end of a long day. She's much too sleepy to answer aloud, she does think: _Are you asking me to masturbate, Zen?_ _You pervert._

No direct answer comes, but a warm, dull hum fills her brain, and without bothering to open her eyes Jenna slips a hand between her thighs. It should be embarrassing, getting herself off while she knows somebody's watching, but actually it's nice, late at night, not to feel alone.


	30. Day 30: Deep Throating (Avon/Tarrant)

“If you can't handle this, we can stop.”

Like that, Avon has Tarrant on the defensive, his lips numb and swollen and his nails clawing in with threat to Avon's thigh. “You're not that's impressive,” he drawls. He's pretty sure Avon is nothing extraordinary in terms of size, and even if he was, hell if Tarrant would say it. He doesn't need Avon's pity, not that he thinks the man is capable of it, but even less does he need Avon's contempt. He can meet Avon as an equal – partner? Opponent? One of the two – and take whatever he wants to dole out, here and everywhere else. “I'm fine Avon, I know what I'm doing. Now try to enjoy yourself, if you can.”

Tarrant leans back in, taking the head of Avon's prick in his mouth with practised enthusiasm – and if that practice is more feigned than actual, who can say? Avon, apparently, takes his word for it, hands clasping his curls and pushing him down. He is too removed to respond overtly to Tarrant licking around his cock, but he does let out a sigh, very gently, as Tarrant sucks him down, and Tarrant takes that as evidence Avon is not as impervious to his attentions as he likes to pretend.

It doesn't take Tarrant long to realise he may have bitten off more than he can chew here – or suck, as the case may be. Bobbing his head over Avon's cock makes him feel good, safe, powerful, but when Avon pushes him on further he splutters a little. Avon pauses, but he does not stop, and Tarrant isn't about to let this be over before it's even begun. He forces himself back under control and Avon carries on.

He gags, helpless, as Avon's cock knocks against the back of his throat. It makes Avon groan loudly. Tarrant tries to use his tongue like he had planned, but it's no use, his mouth is just too full, Avon's hips rocking shallowly against his face. At least he's enjoying himself.

Frantically, Tarrant scratches at Avon's thigh, not asking him to stop – he doesn't want to stop, he thinks – but asking for something. Avon moans sharply, hands running through Tarrant's hair just as desperately, like he wants more, needs more, like nothing else makes him feel as good.

Tarrant looks up to try and meet Avon's gaze, only to discover Avon has his face turned up to the ceiling. _He isn't even looking at me,_ he thinks, dismay giving way to fury. _If he wants to fuck my throat, he could at least have the decency to look me in the eye._

He couldn't say how long he's there, choking on Avon's cock, before he feels Avon shudder head to toe, pulling back a little but still clutching at his hair, muttering something indecipherable under his breath – but Tarrant is pretty sure it's not his name. Avon comes in his mouth and it tastes disgusting, but he still swallows instinctively before pushing off, tending to his bruised lips.

“Are you alright?” Avon sounds out of breath, but otherwise, just as emotionless as ever. Tarrant stares up at him defiantly.

“Fine,” he says, voice sore and hoarse. If he thinks he sees a flicker of guilt on Avon's face, he chalks it up to his tear-stained eyes.


	31. Day 31: Free Day (Cally/Dayna)

“Well, what do you think?”

Cally taps her fingers against the computer print-outs,suddenly relieved that Dayna isn't an Auron, and so she has time to collect her thoughts. “They're certainly very creative,” she says diplomatically, and Dayna beams, thrilled with such a compliment.

Really, she shouldn't be surprised that Dayna approaches love much the same way she does war. “Thanks,” she says. “There's so much sexual tension on board this ship, someone has to do something about it, if only on paper.” Well Cally can't fault her logic. “So do you think I should show the others?”

Cally blanches at the thought. Vila would probably laugh, if not complain he didn't get a bigger role, but Tarrant is unpredictable and Avon... “Ah, actually Dayna,” she gets up out of her seat when it looks like Dayna might make a break for it. Now, how to phrase this? “I was thinking, if you were so concerned about the sexual tension on board, we could handle it more directly?”

After a moment's silence, Dayna starts grinning again. “Oh, that's a much better offer.” And Cally is surprised to find herself pushed up against the teleport console with Dayna kissing her passionately. Idly she wonders if she should worry about taking advantage of the young girl, but Dayna doesn't exactly touch her like a naive waif. When she pulls back, Dayna whispers, “Now, let's see if we can't be loud enough to show the boys what they're missing.”

Cally blinks, nonplussed, but she reasons, anything for crew morale.


End file.
